The dark side of 40 magnified by make-up mirror
Now that I’ve passed over to the dark side of 40, I’ve reached what the French call “une femme d’un certain age.
I’ve bought into the remedial idea of skin care to help undo all the damage. I’m also done sun bathing, laughing, smiling, grimacing, and crying…all of which were my favorite things to do. I even have a friend who stopped eating sandwiches because of the “pursing” action it required.
I’ve begun using the “fake and bake” tanning lotions and I purchase every new cream that the multi-billion dollar cosmetic industry promises will “erase the signs of aging.” There are a gazillion of them and I’ve embraced every new discovery that has come along beginning with alpha hydroxies and ending with peptides. None of them worked as well as my “coffee ground” facials, but that’s another story.
My hope for a magic potion reigns eternal to this very day although I reluctantly admit that my “dewy days” are numbered. In fact, I haven’t been very dewy since Katrina blew in.
While wandering through Bed, Bath and Beyond I happened upon an innocuous looking display featuring “essentials for the boudoir.” Right in the dead center was a lighted make-up mirror with a sign bragging that it could magnify an object 8 times.
I casually glanced into the mirror to check my lipstick. What peered back at me was so grotesque I jumped back and shrieked loudly enough that someone called 911.
My shopping companion arrived and surveyed the situation. As she helped me up off the floor she whispered gently, “Why do you do this to yourself - that thing magnifies every little imperfection EIGHT times.”
I bought the mirror anyway and it has proven very revealing. I discovered a pock mark left over from kindergarten when I was the first to contract chicken pox. I found that my lips don’t match. The right side stops short of where the left side does, which leaves me with a permanent smirk. So when you see me smirking at you, don’t take it personally.
This week I went through the capacious hat box which serves as a burial ground for all my cast off bottles of “hope in a jar.” They all carry names like “Renew”, “Reclaim”, or “Regerist”. It all made me want to “Regurgitate” as I computed the cost of my vanity.
Rather than throw them all away to make space for the next crop, I dumped the remains of each into a bowl and blended them altogether. If one of them contained a miniscule amount of anything effective against wrinkles, I was covered.
